The Maker had a Sense of Humor
by Maeghan Sullivan
Summary: Cullen considers the irony of it all, as he thinks back on the beautiful mages he's known over the years. f!mage!Trevelyan/Cullen with references to f!Amell and f!mage!Hawke. Set after Inquisition, with hints of spoilers here and there.


He considered himself a devout man.

The musing came late in the evening, as he leaned against one of the stone pillars in the Chantry garden with the one he loved more than life itself wrapped up in his arms. He stroked his fingers absentmindedly over her cheek, his gaze fixed unseeingly on one of the statues in the garden.

Yes, Cullen Rutherford considered himself a devout man.

He'd given his life to the templars, after all, joining the Order when he was still more boy than man, and he'd truthfully devoted himself to the life. Oh, he'd admitted to his mind having wandered here and there, particularly when he'd been forced to watch a candle burn down as he repeated portions of the Chant, but he hardly considered that a true fault. No, he'd been a model student: eager to learn, eager to train, and even eager to follow the Chantry's edicts.

He'd left the Order eventually, it was true, but he'd given the Order all of himself in those years he'd remained a templar. He'd devoted himself to the Chantry, had always believed in the words of the Chant, and had never missed a religious service.

So yes, he _was_ a devout man by all rights.

Why was it, then, that the Maker seemed to so delight in testing him?

Devout as he was, after all, Cullen had had _years_ to recognize something about himself: he had a _thing_ for mages. There was simply no way to deny it any longer. And _oh_ , how the Maker had tortured him for it!

It wasn't enough, apparently, for him to have simply been surrounded my beautiful women he'd sworn an oath to protect, to avoid fraternizing with. No, that would have been too simple a test. No, the Maker had seen it fit to tempt him instead with a mage that was not only a beautiful woman, but a woman destined to have not only Cullen shake in her presence, but all of Thedas. And the Maker had seen it fit to do so not once, but _multiple_ times.

The Maker had a terrible sense of humor, he decided.

The first had been Solona Amell. _Maker_ , he'd been absolutely infatuated with her, a skilled templar reduced to a boy stumbling over his words by nothing more than her presence – something she'd graced him with far more often than was truly appropriate. She'd not been the only beautiful woman at Kinloch Hold, but she had been the only one that had truly caught his eye and plagued his thoughts. She'd been…

Young. It was the description that always came to mind when Cullen thought back on the Amell of his memories; he remembered her first and foremost as _Apprentice Amell_.

He had, of course, overseen her Harrowing – a task that had seemed cruel beyond comprehension back when he hadn't yet understood _true_ cruelty – but he'd not had time for the title of _Mage Amell_ to stick in his mind. And regardless of her title, she'd still been so young. One of the quickest Harrowings, the others of the Order had commented while she'd recovered from the test, but none had commented on how even more remarkable it all was for such a quick Harrowing to have been completed by someone so young. They hadn't given her the credit she deserved, he'd believed – he _still_ believed.

Oh, she'd been young. She'd been full of life and far more innocence than such a beautiful young woman had any right to be full of. Her laughter had been sweet and bubbling – a soft sound he'd somehow always been able to hear from across a crowded corridor – and her step had always had a slight skip to it. She'd been full of hope, happiness, and exuberance. True, she'd been a skilled mage – that the Warden who had visited had wanted to recruit her had proven that – but she'd been anything but seasoned.

And Maker's Breath, he hadn't been all that different himself. He'd been young, too, and innocent enough to think that templars and their mage charges could be anything but distantly friendly. But a mage and a templar couldn't be _friends_ , not when one had the obligation to put down the other if the situation called for it. That was a truth he had learned when the Circle had fallen, but it had taken years for him to realize that just because the two couldn't be friends, that didn't mean that they had to be _enemies_.

He hadn't considered Solona Amell a friend, even all those years ago, when she'd drop by his post and chat with him about the day's events. And it was _she_ who had chatted with _him_ ; he hadn't had to coherency required to hold up any end of the conversation, not truly. He did so love to hear her talk, though.

He'd thought he'd loved her, had heard the other mages whispering back and forth about how they'd heard that he'd so loved her. Oh, he'd been painfully obvious about it – something that had undoubtedly been a factor in the decision to task _him_ with dealing the final blow if she _had_ failed her Harrowing.

He hadn't loved her, though. No, looking back, he couldn't help but offer a small smile to the statue of Andraste that stood before him. He hadn't understood love back then, hadn't felt the overwhelming ache of a heart that suddenly belonged to someone else, hadn't known how full a heart could truly be.

He'd simply been… _enthralled_ with Apprentice Amell; he knew as much now, had described it a number of times as a _youthful infatuation_. She'd been beautiful, sweet, and innocent, a combination that had tempted him more than he'd ever cared to admit. But she had been his charge, and even then, he'd known nothing could come of his infatuation. And more than that, he'd realized some time later, he'd never actually _known_ her. She _hadn't_ been a friend of his, hadn't known his last name or that he had siblings, and he hadn't known anything of substance about her, either.

No, he hadn't loved her, but he couldn't bring himself to regret his infatuation with her, either. Of course, said infatuation had been taken and twisted by the demons that had stalked the halls of the Circle after she had left. They'd used it as ammunition against him, tempting him with what had been – at the time – the one and only thing he'd ever wanted, the one and only thing he'd never be able to have. His infatuation, then, had been tortuous, and there had been a number of years when he'd convinced himself that it was her fault. He'd blamed _her_ for his infatuation, for his weakness that the demons had tried so desperately to exploit.

But she'd come back and had saved him – had saved them all from the blight, in the end. And so he hadn't been able to bring himself to blame her for long, hadn't been able to truly regret that infatuation he'd had. She'd been young, full of life, and so devastatingly sweet; he could do her memory no dishonor by regretting his association with her. And he might not have loved her, might not have even really known her, but he had cared for her, and for a long time, he'd wondered what could have been different if she'd not given her life in Denerim that fateful day, if he'd had the chance to see her again, to apologize for the one thing about their relationship he very much _did_ regret. He never should have said those things to her, tortured as he'd been, when she'd shown up to save him. He never should have made her recoil as she had in pain.

That had been unworthy of him.

He couldn't honestly blame the Maker, then, for sending him then on a collision course with Marian Hawke. That woman, oh, she'd been something else. The opposite of Apprentice Amell, he liked to think.

Where the Hero of Ferelden had been sweet and innocent, the Champion of Kirkwall had been sharp-tongued and flirtatious – _overly_ flirtatious, as far as Cullen was concerned. Where the Hero of Ferelden had made him stutter and stumble over his words, the Champion of Kirkwall had made him sigh in exasperation on a number of occasions. The Champion he'd known, he'd figured, at least a great deal more than he'd ever known the Hero. He supposed he had time to thank for that; ten years of more or less working beside her gave him time to actually know her.

Hawke _had_ been… _naïve_ when they'd first met – he'd never have called her _innocent_ – but her naïveté, youthful as it must have been, had faded quickly over the years. He supposed she'd been idealistic at first, for she'd argued with him when they'd first met, had insisted his handling of the templar recruit had been unjust, had insisted his opinion of mages had denied them enough credit. Maker, he'd argued with her over it, had tried to convince a _mage_ that mages could not be afforded such complete trust.

He hadn't known, of course, that she'd been a mage herself. No, she'd fought at his side with what he'd at the time believed to be a dual-ended mace of some sort. She'd slashed through the demons with powerful swings, had cut and thrust and parried like the best of warriors. He hadn't even _considered_ that she could've been a mage. He _still_ wasn't sure how she'd managed to so skillfully hide her connection with the fade.

He'd eventually heard the rumors, naturally, but he'd at first brushed aside those whisperings as false gossip. He'd seen her fight as a warrior, after all, and she'd helped him out more times than he'd ever be able to recall. And then he'd simply not wanted to believe the rumors, had pointedly ignored them because he'd had no proof. And then he'd seen the proof with his very eyes, as she'd shocked and frozen and scorched the Arishok in the duel that had saved Kirkwall. He'd actually been relieved when she'd been made Champion, elevated to a rank that made her untouchable. It had eased his conscience, to not have to lock away someone he'd actually considered to be a friend.

They'd disagreed on things over the years, it was true, but never drastically so, and even in those early years where Hawke had been most vocal about her support for mages, she'd never been anything but polite and respectful to the templars she'd encountered. And that was a lie, he supposed, because she had been more than polite and respectful; she'd been _suggestive_ and downright inappropriate at times. It had been something that had brought red back to his cheeks at times, but something that he'd considered friendly nonetheless. _Too_ friendly, at times, but still.

And the more Hawke worked with him, the more he saw that naïve idealism of hers crumble, the more he recognized aspects of himself within her. The years instilled a cynicism in her that he still wasn't sure he'd liked, but he'd be lying if he claimed not to have appreciated her growing understanding of the Order's cause.

She'd seen the worst magic had to offer, too, and he figured they'd bonded over it a bit, though neither of them had ever explicitly shared anything on the topic. But she'd helped him more and more in those later years, had sided with Knight-Commander Meredith on all of the important matters. She'd been called a _puppet_ of the Order for it, he'd known, but the rumors of her being coerced in exchange for her freedom were completely false; she'd sided with the Order not for her freedom, but for what she'd believed to be right. She'd had no choice, she'd told him after that fateful battle.

He'd told her the same. It had been, after all, _his_ plan to have her arrested once the Circle had been brought back under control. He'd not relished the thought of it, but he'd believed it to have been the right decision, everything considered. And that was something, in those days.

She _had_ been his friend, as far as he was concerned, but he'd never loved her, either. He'd never so much as thought about her that way, truthfully. She'd been beautiful and powerful and when it came down to it, _good_ , but she hadn't really been his type. True, she'd been a mage and she'd been someone he'd cared deeply for, but she'd been a friend and nothing more.

That had been partly because of his own mental stability at the time, he was sure. He'd been in a dark place at the start of their partnership, and he hadn't been open to romantic musings until many, many years later. But even if he _hadn't_ been so closed off, he wasn't certain anything would have been different.

Marian Hawke had been full of life in a very different way than Solona Amell had been, in a way that had always left Cullen more unsettled than anything else. He'd always considered himself to be a devout man, after all, and Hawke had been anything _but_ a devout woman. He felt less devout in her presence, even. He hadn't been sure he'd liked that feeling.

But they'd been friends, and that'd been exactly what he'd needed at the time. He hadn't wanted more.

Not from _her_ , at least.

The Inquisitor... Now, _that_ had been a different story altogether.

She'd been The Prisoner in the beginning, as far as he'd been concerned. Striking, but he'd barely noticed. He _had_ noticed, of course, that she was a mage. Because _of course_ she was a mage; he'd started to expect it of every woman he was introduced to in strange circumstances. And a hole in the sky, a glowing mark on a hand… that was as strange as it got.

Quite the entrance, he'd called it. He smiled at the memory.

The Prisoner had quickly become The Herald of Andraste and just as quickly The Inquisitor. Those titles hadn't bothered him, hadn't made him still and think over what was happening. No, it was only when she'd become _Evelyn_ that he'd begun to worry.

She'd been The Inquisitor, after all – his _leader_ by all rights. He was to give her advice and respect her orders; that was all. Theirs was a _professional_ relationship, nothing more. He'd had to remind himself of that countless times when he'd caught his mind wandering.

Because she wasn't _just_ The Inquisitor or The Herald or Lady Trevelyan. She was loyal, not just to the Circle or to the cause she had so readily jumped behind; she was loyal to each and every one of their men. She'd been ready to sacrifice herself at Haven, had been willing to walk right into the viper's nest at Val Royeaux and Therinfal Redoubt. She'd gone out of her way to save as many of their people as she could – more than he'd imagined possible – when Haven had been under attack and when their men had struggled to get a hold on the battlements of Adamant Fortress. She'd stood up to Leliana and argued that their men weren't disposable, had allegedly slammed her staff into Iron Bull's head when he'd considered saving the Qunari alliance over his own men.

She had a temper. It had taken him months to learn this, for she'd never appeared anything but perfectly complacent in their War Council meetings. She'd been able to calm arguing companions and play The Game at the Winter Palace, but he'd seen her threaten a merchant who had attempted to blackmail her in exchange for an amulet that had apparently meant a great deal to Dorian. She'd only smiled and offered words of understanding when certain Chancellors and Clerics had denounced her and claimed she was merely grabbing for power – something that he'd found terribly frustrating, once he'd learned exactly how far from the truth that had been – but yet he'd seen her punch one of his soldiers in the face. She still hadn't told him what the soldier had said that had incited her so.

She was fun to be around. She took matters seriously, but he'd seen her share sarcastic words as time passed, as she grew closer to and more comfortable with her companions and advisors. She'd teased him, on occasion, as well. And unlike when Marian Hawke had done it, he found he didn't truly mind Evelyn Trevelyan poking fun at him. And he _certainly_ didn't mind the way she'd always gone along with some of the ridiculous things he'd said while exhausted at the War Table. Lake Calenhad _did_ look like a bunny, she'd agreed, and when he'd made some comment about wondering how the fortress had gotten the name _Skyhold_ , she'd dropped a report and demanded to know why that hadn't been brought up before. That meeting had gone on far too long, but oh how the four of them had laughed!

She was patient and kind. He'd seen her entertain the children of visiting nobles and diplomats, had seen her work with the other healers to try and ease the suffering of some of their soldiers. Healing magic wasn't a strong suit of hers, either, so he knew most of her time must've been spent fetching herbs and taking orders from other mages.

She was determined and obedient. It was something about her that still amazed him, how much she preferred to be told what to do rather than be forced to decide herself. She'd not weighed in on the debate over whether to pursue the mages or the templars to seal the breach, not at first; instead, she'd merely told them, her advisors, to make up their minds. She'd happily gone on any mission that needed doing, but when faced with three different suggestions for how to handle an operation at the War Table, she'd always sent an exhausted, glum little look in his direction. He'd helped her train to better be able to dodge and survive fights against templars, and he'd never seen a recruit with more determination and willingness to listen and learn… though he _had_ seen recruits with more natural ability.

She was devout. It was something he both loved and hated about her, for it took a decent amount of time to convince her that she didn't need to return to the Circle, that she could stay and live happily as the Inquisitor… that it was _okay_ for her to. She'd joined him in reciting the Chant on occasion, and he'd caught her saying prayers before missions. And she liked templars; he didn't have words for how refreshing that had been.

She was somehow a mixture of sultry and innocent – something that Cullen loved, though he didn't find it even remotely fair. She'd always flirted horribly with Dorian – something that had admittedly bothered him at first, before he realized the harmlessness of it all – but yet had gone on rambling and had cut herself off whenever she'd tried to flirt with him. She was comfortable inviting others into her quarters while she was inadequately clothed – oh, he remembered bringing in an urgent report only to find her in nothing but a sheer nightgown – and she'd bet an article or two of her own clothing at various games of Wicked Grace, but yet he'd seen her fleeing from her quarters in a clumsy mess, her face bright red and her eyes terribly wide. He'd admittedly slammed Iron Bull into a wall when the Qunari had exited her quarters a moment later. The larger man had raised his hands in surrender, calling it all a misunderstanding, and Cullen had demanded to know just what kind of _misunderstanding_ they were talking about. But it had apparently been a _genuine_ one, and the Qunari had seemed embarrassed himself as he'd explained the situation to the Commander.

And _Maker_ , she was beautiful, too. Another beautiful, powerful mage that he worked with, another woman whom would be improper to pursue. But _Maker's breath_ , this one he loved.

He'd considered her a friend from early on. He'd told her of his siblings, had spent slow afternoons playing chess with her. She'd known his last name, had eventually come to share it. He'd even told her about his struggles with his lyrium addiction, told her what had happened when the Fereldan Circle had fallen. And just when he'd been sure she'd pull away from him, she'd stepped closer, reassuring him and encouraging him when he'd all but given up hope. What he'd admitted to her should have frightened her, but then again, she'd never had a healthy sense of fear.

Spiders – that was the only thing she really feared. He'd heard the way her companions teased her about it, had heard Varric's tale of one cave exploration, where she'd allegedly just run in circles shouting curses and blindly casting spells at the chasing creatures.

She was so strong, so powerful, but yet so _grounded_ , so… human. She was afraid of spiders, and though she could so easily bring him to a stammering mess, he could cause her to ramble nervously just as easily.

Maker, he loved her.

He wasn't even sure when he'd first realized it, but he knew that whenever it had been, it had taken him far too long to come to the conclusion. He didn't care to admit how long he'd probably been in love with her.

He'd been sure back then that the Maker was laughing at him, that he'd been being punished for the things he'd said to Amell, for the fear and hatred he'd had in his heart for a time, for the fact that he hadn't questioned Meredith until it had been too late. He'd been _sure_ he'd been being punished. Why else would the Maker bring him another mage, make him fall for a woman he could never have?

But then Evelyn had brought him out on the battlements that day, and he'd realized that everything he'd wanted _hadn't_ actually been too much to hope for. He'd known he'd loved her when he'd kissed her that day, but it had taken him a fair amount of time to tell her as much, and she had actually beaten him to it, in the end. He couldn't regret it, though, not when everything had worked out so perfectly.

He didn't regret any of it.

And if it all was some elaborate joke that the Maker set in motion, then he supposed he should only be even more devout, for he loved the Maker nearly as much as he loved that woman. Nearly as much as—

"I'm afraid that's quite enough of this nonsense; it's time I cut in."

Pulled from his thoughts, Cullen finally tore his gaze away from the statue, shifting just enough to be able to send a glance in the approaching mage's direction. Dressed even more extravagantly as usual, the man extended his arms with a smug grin on his face.

The former templar only narrowed his eyes. "One more step, Dorian, and I'll smite you where you stand."

The Tevinter barked out a loud laugh. "Such posturing!" he returned. "We both know that you won't, not when it would make your girl there cry. Come now, unhand her!"

But Cullen made no move to do so, simply looking down at the one he still held tight to his chest, a loving smile on his lips when she looked back up at him.

"Oh _good_ , I was so hoping you would be difficult! I'll have you know, Commander, that I have been given the authority to make _all kinds_ of threats on our lovely Inquisitor's behalf. Let's see… shall we start with no more—"

" _Alright_ , Dorian!" he interrupted before the man could actually voice the threat. He pressed a kiss just beneath two blonde curls, before rather reluctantly handing her over to the waiting mage.

"Ah, learning quickly, are we?" came the expected taunt, but the Tevinter didn't so much as glance in the Fereldan's direction, instead already too focused on tiny blonde. "Hello, My Dear," he said softly as he gave the girl's cheek an affectionate pat. "Shall we see if you'll spit up on Duchess Rinaldi's gown? We'd be doing her a favor, you know."

Oh, Cullen so wanted to roll his eyes and scold the man holding his daughter, but as it was, he could do nothing more than let out a quiet laugh. His amusement caught the other man's attention, though, and he very quickly decided that he didn't like that mischievous glint. "I'm _going_ , I'm going," he assured quickly, before any threats could be actually handed out. He had no doubt Dorian would be all too happy to issue several, and he had no doubt his Evelyn would stand behind them all, no matter the nature.

 _Maker_ he loved that woman, but sometimes he wished she didn't know it.

With a final glance at the pair remaining in the garden – and a loud sigh when he noticed the way the Tevinter was already using his free hand to demonstrate a tiny palm-sized blizzard – Cullen finally turned and made his way back into the ball.

He was a former templar, and yet there he was, surrounded by mage after mage… which was _much_ better company than noble after noble, but the irony remained. First Solona Amell, then Marian Hawke, and then Evelyn Trevelyan… How could he have been naïve enough to think that it would stop there?

He hadn't even been surprised when Evelyn had informed him that she thought – that she _knew_ – their daughter possessed magical talents. It was, of course, _impossible_ for one to know such a thing before a child was old enough to show signs, but somehow he didn't doubt his wife.

And somehow, he didn't worry over the matter. She'd be like her mother, he knew, and perhaps even a bit like the Tevinter who seemed so smitten by her.

And Cullen thought that that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

The Maker had a glorious sense of humor, indeed.


End file.
